


I Only Ever See You in My Dreams

by flailingensues



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Does this count as Hurt/Comfort I have no idea, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gramander, I solemnly swear to do floofy floof in the future, Inspired by the beautiful Kings Cross chapter in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Kissing in MACUSA like a boss, M/M, Mentions of Death, Mild Sexual Content, Newt POV, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 23:29:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14779337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flailingensues/pseuds/flailingensues
Summary: (Percival Graves was dead, or at least, was supposed to be.)"Just call me Percival.”“Then please call me Newt.”





	I Only Ever See You in My Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Synka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synka/gifts).



> For Synka.  
> I Hear You Calling Me is a song sung by John McCormack.  
> (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C2bLpVsHN6M)
> 
> Spotify playlist for this fic if that's your jam!  
> (https://open.spotify.com/user/gwynethice/playlist/2r8018gSlh28ZyVowOCsFR?si=nhgbDwLVReuKO8ApMH3wZg)

 

The first thing Newt hears is his own name, foreign to his ears, like it was spoken with a voice that hadn’t been used for a long, long time. Yet the syllables still hit him, throwing him off-balance like a Jelly-Leg jinx.

_I must be dreaming._

There is strong evidence pointing towards this fact. Exhibit A: the light forcing its way through his eyelids. Newt opens them and there is nothing but pure white light. _Death cell_ , his brain screams automatically, but there isn't a pool of never-ending darkness beneath his feet when he looks down. Instead, there is Exhibit B: his shoes. Spotless and shining like they day they were purchased all those years ago in Diagon Alley.

Newt cannot remember a time when his shoes were anything but battered and worn.

And then came the undeniable proof that Newt was either dreaming or out of his mind: Exhibit C: Auror, Director of Magical Security, head of MACUSA’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and President Picquery’s right-hand man.

Percival Graves, looking as composed as ever, dark hair slicked back, eyes clear, eyebrows raised, head cocked to one side as if he’s amused to see Newt.

The real Percival Graves.

The real Percival Graves, who was definitely not alive, the last time Newt checked.

_He still has his scarf._

* * *

 Newt almost forgets his manners. First meetings never go well for him, not due to lack of trying. And he will try his best this time, even if it does all turn out to be a strange dream that his subconscious decided to conjure up.

“Mr. Graves,” he greets Graves hesitantly, who frowns. “Oh, um, I mean, sir-“

“No need for that. Just call me Percival.”

Newt stares at him.

“Really. I don’t care anymore.” he continues.

Newt could read that as a request. If that's the case, he can hardly refuse.

And he might as well return the favour. Somehow, Newt manages to look the formidable Percival Graves in the face and says, “Then please call me Newt.”

It is the first time Newt sees him smile.

* * *

In a vast stretch of white, a park bench appears out of nowhere. Graves— _Percival_ —sits down with a sigh. He looks as distant as ever, but not in the same way that Newt remembered from his time in New York. The distance feels much more familiar, more like smallness. Or loneliness.

Newt feels like he shouldn’t be there, but there is a space on the bench next to Percival that would fit an awkward Magizoologist just fine. So Newt sits, grazing his hands lightly over the smooth wood.

“Did you use your wand for this?” he asks Percival, to be polite, before remembering that wandless magic was all too easy for a wizard as advanced as him.

Percival just shakes his head. He leans back languidly, eyes glancing to Newt’s pockets. Newt hurriedly checks them, and sure enough, they are somehow free of lint, and, more alarmingly, wandless.

“I wouldn’t worry about it." Percival says. "Magic exists, even in a place like this.”

_A place like this._

A place not for the living.

Even Newt, who is supposed to be bad at reading human emotions, can tell wistfulness when he hears it.

Newt is about to open his mouth to say something, anything at all, when he feels a faint nudge against his foot. He looks down to see a tiny flower growing out of plain white nothing.

A snowdrop.

It is a pretty thing. The stem snaps as soon as he touches it, and he turns it delicately between his fingers. If Percival is surprised at the gesture, he doesn’t say anything.

“Merlin, it’s like the Room of Requirement in here, isn’t it?” Newt says, mostly to himself.

“The Room of Requirement?”

“Oh, um… it’s a Hogwarts thing.” Newt answers, self-conscious as Percival’s gaze turns to fix on him.

“I always wondered about Hogwarts.” Percival says. “Theseus kept going on about how great it was, _Hogsmeade_ this and _Hugglypuff_ that.”

“Hufflepuff,” Newt says quickly. “And that’s because it _is_ great. The greatest. No offence to Ilvermony, of course.”

“None taken.” Percival says, smirking. “But you have to try harder if you want to convince me that.”

Newt laughs and does his best, tells Percival of what he’s lived through and what he’s heard, about his school, the place he still considers as _home_ , in a way, and when the brightness starts fading back into the darkness beneath his eyelids, he presses the snowdrop into Percival’s hands.

* * *

Newt’s back, soon enough. It's like returning to a forgotten memory in a Pensieve, more tangible than a dream, too elusive to be reality.

They talk about everything save the things that hurt, about childhoods and birthdays and schooldays. Newt comes and goes with the sunset and sunrise while Percival is simply _there_.

It is a strange balance, one that Newt risks upsetting when he finally asks the question that has been bubbling away in him.

“Do you need me to…do anything?”

Percival blinks slowly. “Like what?”

“Like…find your, uh--body?”

Percival smiles, but it’s jagged.

“I wouldn’t bother. Bastard probably left me in a ditch in a European No-Maj village somewhere. Things like that don’t matter anymore.”

That’s either the truth or brutal honesty, Newt thinks. It will take many more nights of careful observation to tell, but he’s had experience in observations. Hiding, not knowing if you’re the one who is being observed or the other way around. If that flick of the ears in your direction was merely a coincidence. And Percival was not unlike some creatures he had seen: poised, but vulnerable. Determined to be dignified, not to show anything to others.

Newt knows well that in this type of encounter, both sides run the risk of getting hurt.

Yet the inexplicable desire to get closer runs through his veins.

“The MACUSA is mourning,” he ventures tentatively. From what he’s read from Tina, and what he heard on his radio that was grumpy on Saturdays, the whole country had felt the loss acutely.

 _And not just them_ , he thinks, unbidden.

“Tell them to get back to work,” Percival grumbles. “They caught him already. I’m fine.”

“You’re as…diligent as ever.”

“And look where that got me.”

There’s no edge to it, but Newt doesn’t answer, doesn’t know what to say.

When he glances over at Percival, he is met with the smallest of smiles, and he reluctantly counts it as a win.

* * *

“What are you doing, then? Out there.” Percival asks.

Newt hesitates. It is the first time Percival has asked of the present.

“I’m writing a book,” he says.

“About your creatures?”

“Yes, actually.” Newt laughs. “I didn’t know you knew that.” Or rather, Newt didn’t think he would care. 

“It’s a Newton thing to do, isn’t it?” Percival says. His eyes are warm.

Newt sets himself to committing them to memory.

* * *

Days pass as usual and nights settle into this new routine and it is fine, until one day, Newt goes to sleep and nothing happens. There is no conversation to remember and examine in the morning, nothing to ponder and re-think and second guess.

He feels acutely empty.

 _Strange_ , he thinks, as he gets out of bed and mechanically starts his morning routine. _Being alone never felt like this before._

* * *

Newt’s heart leaps when he sees the light again.

There is a dark blue dot in the distance. Percival, alone, dwarfed by the sheer vastness of the space they’re in.

Newt hurries over, the ground feeling shaky under his feet. “I am so, so, sorry, I have no idea why I didn’t—”

Percival cuts him off, voice hoarse. “It’s fine, I didn’t really notice.”

“Oh.” Newt stops, a few feet away, heart sinking. _Selfish_ , he scolds himself. Percival is fine, or as fine as circumstances will allow. He is right in front of him once again, which should be comfort enough. He shouldn’t need or want anything more than that.

Percival seems to notice Newt’s unease, and his hands jerk up as in an aborted gesture of apology. “I meant—time runs strangely for me here, it feels like barely minutes have passed.” he explains. “I didn’t mean that I wasn’t—I’m glad that you’re… back.”

Newt doesn’t try to analyse the rush of relief that rushes through him.

He doesn’t ask any burning questions; doesn’t ask _did you miss me like I missed you_ or _how long will you stay here waiting for me?_

He’s not sure he wants to know the answers.

* * *

How long can a living creature survive in a vacuum, Newt wonders? He thinks of his darling Thunderbird, unfurling magnificently against the sky of New York in a flash of colour like a roaring bonfire. But then again, none of Newt’s creatures are alone. They have each other, even if they don’t think so— _dear Pickett_ —and they have him, of course.

Newt thinks of the Obscurus, pulsating in its bubble, a reminder of the cruelty he was unable to prevent and the life he failed to save.

What does that make Percival, then? He’s not a resident of his suitcase, nor under Newt’s sanctuary, however Newt may wish for that kind of control. It’s too late for any of that. Newt can’t take care of him, just like he can’t take care of wizards nor muggles. Percival’s not a Jacob, or a Tina, or a Queenie.

And just when Newt thought he was getting better with people.

But then, he supposes, Percival need not be alone. Not if he has Newt.

* * *

Newt still can’t exactly figure out how this space, this limbo works, but Percival seems to be handling it perfectly, movements graceful and full of magic despite the lack of a wand.

Like this moment right now: a picnic blanket billows and descends neatly onto the ground like a surreptitiously dropped handkerchief, followed by a rattling picnic basket and a dark bottle of wine. Percival claps his hands lightly, as if proud of his own performance, but he looks almost embarrassed when he meets Newt’s eyes.

“No time like now for indulgence,” Newt quips. He kneels down and fishes out two glasses from the basket, as the wine bottle uncorks itself with a satisfying _pop_. Their fingers brush for a fraction of a moment when he hands Percival his glass. Newt tries to smile, to brush it off, but the expression feels odd on his face, too much like acting. He settles for sipping his wine instead. It’s fragrant, heavy, and quite unlike anything he’s ever tasted before.

_What are your dreams made of?_

Nothing much, really. Sharing picnics with the former head of MACUSA. Pressing his lips to the rim of a wineglass because he doesn’t know what to say, because there are too many words that threaten to all spill out at once. Fingers almost touching, a stretch of course tartan blanket between them.

_Not much. Not much indeed._

Newt considers asking Percival for a toast.

 _To your good health_ \--

Maybe not then.

Newt closes his eyes and sighs, but as soon as he feels the brush of Percival’s fingertips on the back of his hand, he is alone in his bed again, blinking up at the dull, wooden ceiling.

He runs his hands over his worn blanket and wishes it was tartan.

* * *

The next time, Newt wakes up in the MACUSA headquarters.

His head swims as he sits up and his breath catches for a moment; he had forgotten how grand the place was. The foyer was made even more impressive by the fact that it was completely empty.

Something white bumps into Newt’s nose and he splutters. A couple of paper birds are flitting around him, nudging him gently in the direction of the lift.

The gilded phoenixes turn to look at him as he passes the marble steps. He nods at them respectfully and they dip their heads in response before turning away.

He follows his memory of the building, trusting that and whatever winding logic the place has to guide him. He feels like he’s fourteen again, liquid luck coursing through his veins like happiness, wandering through the corridors of Hogwarts in a state of absolute bliss. He found what he was looking for then, a pale white egg nestling in a suit of armour near the Gryffindor common room. He finds what he’s looking for now, a mahogany door with an unmissable name plaque.

He pushes it open and peeks in, only to see Percival glance up from his desk with a smile. His hair is neat, and he looks happy to be in his element.

“I apologise for the redecoration,” he says. “I was experimenting to see what I could do, and before I knew it—” Percival waves his hand.

“I think it’s absolutely wonderful.” Newt beams.

He takes time to study Percival’s office, complete with gleaming cabinets and a wine-red velvet couch, as he walks to stand by the desk. It is empty apart from a quill, an inkwell, a stack of papers and a miniature of the clock-like device hanging in the lobby. All the hands are pointing to “Zero Threat”, and Newt can't help but laugh.

“Oh, that is a rare sight,” Percival says. “I couldn’t take my eyes off it for a second before.”

“At least it’s good to know that I’m not considered a threat. I would have expected a _High Alert_  with my last visit to America.” Newt says lightly.

“Don’t underestimate yourself, Mr. Scamander, you’re a solid _Danger_ at least.”

“Oh, you can handle it.”

“You’re right, I _can_ handle it.” Percival smirks.

It’s dangerous, Newt thinks, as he tries to subtly grip the back of Percival’s chair to steady himself.

He fails, judging by the way Percival chuckles.

Newt pokes his back in retaliation and breathes a little easier.

* * *

Newt’s Kneazle is in the final stages of pregnancy and Newt doesn’t sleep for what feels like days. As soon as she settles down with her new-borns, he crumples into a pile on his bed and falls asleep in seconds.

“Well, you look tired,” Percival says from where he’s sitting on the desk in his office. He nods at the velvet sofa, which dutifully wriggles its way towards Newt.

“I’m literally sleeping right now,” Newt says, but collapses onto the sofa with a grateful sigh all the same.

“You need more real sleep,” Percival says.

“And miss talking to you?” Newt shakes his head stubbornly, and Percival pushes up from his chair and sits down next to him in a single fluid moment.

Newt is suddenly, acutely aware of the space between them and the warmth radiating off their bodies, like kettle steam in the winter, that sort that curls around window panes and clings to chilly fingertips.

“Tell me what kept you up for so long.” Percival says softly, hands grazing his.

“You could… guess?”

“Then we’d be here forever.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad.”

Percival laughs, something halfway between a scoff and a bitter sigh.

Newt doesn’t pry for more, just dares himself to move a bit closer. Percival inhales at the contact but gradually relaxes into his side. Quietly, Newt lets his head drop onto Percival’s shoulder.

For a long moment, there is silence as they breathe in tandem.

“Did you get arrested?” Percival says suddenly.

“ _No_ ,” Newt huffs. “Why are you still hung up on that? You weren’t even there, and it was just that once.”

“More like a couple thousand times.”

Newt tuts as he feels the rumbles of Percival’s laughter and pinches his waist in revenge.

“Okay, okay. Something got pregnant.”

“…Huh.”

“What, was that wrong too?”

“No, actually, that was right. Daisy gave birth this morning.”

“Daisy?”

“Kneazle. Did you know Kneazles don’t eat for two days before giving birth? I shouldn’t worry, but I do.”

“You probably did a fine job.”

“I just did the best I could,” Newt says, aware of Percival’s fingers gently smoothing his hair and the rise and fall of his chest under his head.

“You got that a lot quicker than I expected,” Newt whispers, and he feels Percival nod against his head. “I was prepared to sleep here until you got it right.”

Newt pretends not to see the dull sadness in Percival’s eyes when he thinks Newt isn’t looking, just focuses on the hands tangled in his curls and the warmth on his cheek.

* * *

Newt wakes up dazed and occupied. He jumps at the slightest of noises. Light breezes are distracting. Even the sensation of his shirt on his skin feels like too much to bear.

He’s seen creatures in heat before, even guided many of them through it. This shouldn’t be difficult. Just dealing with clouded thoughts and a yearning for touch—that’s all there was to it.

Except Newt knows that that isn’t true, and that these thoughts of his surround one person and one person only.

He sighs-he’s lost count of how many times he’s done so since waking up—and tries to concentrate on writing.

By the time he has crossed out a fifth page of notes, Newt gives up and goes to take care of the rounds.

His darlings, sensitive as ever, seeming to sense that something is off and either keep their distance or cling closer to him than usual.

“Mummy’s terrible at this,” he mumbles as he feeds the Mooncalves. They blink at him with their limpid eyes, unconcerned about anything but food and Newt sighs.

He could really do with a cup of tea.

Newt points his wand over his shoulder and conjures a mug without looking, grabbing it and gulping down the hot liquid as soon as he can, nearly scalding his tongue in the process.

He hears tittering and rolls his eyes to the room at large.

“Don’t you laugh, only last week I…"

He collapses to the floor.

* * *

There’s a warmth enveloping Newt, spreading over his skin like he’s being slowly glazed in it. He tries to pry open his eyes, to get some sense of location, but his body is slow to respond. He splays his fingers, searching for something to ground him, for anything to anchor himself to.

Calloused hands gently wrap around his. A voice whispers in his ears, _“Shh, I’ve got you--“_

It’s the voice he hoped to hear.

Newt reaches out blindly and draws him closer. He wants to look, but he can’t tell if his eyes are still closed or if everything was darkness to begin with. But he can touch, can feel, can hear. Warm breath on his neck. A faint pressure on his lips, light as a feather before deepening and opening up his mouth to liquid warmth. He runs his hands over bare skin, lined with the ridges of scars that he traces with his fingertips, first gentle, then firm, drawing out heavier gasps that echo his own. Whispered nothings, mouthed into his shoulder blades, ticklish and almost unbearable.

He lets himself be taken over and sinks into bliss.

* * *

Hours later, Newt cracks his eyes open to a dark room. He’s sprawled on the floor with his cloak spread over him. He’s sprawled on the floor, hands grasping at the damp floorboards. His mug is a now a shattered mess and there's a dull pain in his palms from where the shards have cut him. He grabs his wand and staggers up with a muttered "Repario", wiping his hands on his shirt to little success.

It is abnormally quiet.

He manages to sort himself out, but his darlings are still hiding from him, the smell of conspiracy thick in the air.

He soon finds out why when he checks his stocks.

"Who is responsible for this?" He asks the room at large, holding up a glass vial. An empty glass vial. A glass vial with a purple label, the sort he uses to keep sleeping draughts. Which he presumably previously consumed a whole lot of along with his tea.

None of his creatures answer. Not that he particularly expected any of them to.

Newt sighs. He wants to be cross at them, but he understands their concerns. His sleep patterns have been considerably...altered, for the past few weeks.

"Mummy's fine," he says softly. "You don't have to worry about me so."

A few chatters here and there. Newt smiles. They'll come around, he knows, if he gives them time.

He looks at the empty vial again.

 _I need to review that recipe. So much for dreamless sleeping droughts_ , he thinks, blushing.

* * *

"Newt,"

Someone's gripping his shoulders. He's thankful for the grounding touch, because it feels like he'll drift away, cut loose from earth.

"Newt, Newton-"

Only Percival says his name like that. It’s nice. It sounds nice, having his name called by Percival. Quiet, urgent. He wonders why he didn’t realise that sooner, have Percival call his name when the rest of the world could hear it. They could have moved in together. It would have been a compromise, but a welcome one. Newt could do his research and forget to do the dishes, and Percival could come home from work and muss his hair up the moment he got through the door; Newt would teach him how to feed the creatures, they would proofread each other’s work, and at night, they would tumble into the messy bedsheets, and Newt would hear his name, just for him, “ _Newton_ —"

Newt opens his eyes.

Percival’s face looms over his, face drawn tight with concern.

“Merlin, Newt, please be fine—"

“You look worried.” Newt mumbles. It’s not right, for Percival to look worried.

Percival sighs in relief, and Newt is pleasantly surprised to find himself cocooned in Percival’s arms. He offers minimal resistance when Percival pulls them both to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Percival says in a rush. “You’re exhausted, Newton, I didn’t think—I didn’t think how bad it would be for you, didn’t think—”

“What do you mean, bad? You could never be bad,” Newt says, reaching out to smooth out the creases in his brow.

Percival smiles, but it’s faint and watery.

“I’m being selfish,” Percival says.

“And so am I,” Newt replies, and Percival’s eyes widen in surprise.

“…Merlin.” Percival finally cracks a smile. “What am I going to do with you, honestly.”

“Kiss me, perhaps?” Newt says, boldened. “Since you asked so nicely.”

There is silence that stretches on too long for Newt’s comfort.

A rush of fear shoots through him, more acute than any fatigue he may be harbouring. “If you—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—just ignore that and I’ll—”

Percival kisses him.

It’s a soft, gentle brush, just a few seconds, a faint hint of warmth against Newt’s chapped lips.

“Was that what you wanted?” Percival murmurs.

“Yes,” Newt says. Percival smiles, eyes soft and larger-than-life as their foreheads rest together.

“Actually, no.”

"No?" Newt smiles as he feels Percival tense up.

“No, I’d like more, please.”

Percival laughs and complies.

* * *

What is it now, then? This quiet equilibrium they’ve reached, balancing together on the edge of something entirely new and unknown? Newt tries to see beyond tomorrow, but the door to the future is still firmly locked, and he doesn’t want to pass though it by himself.

It’s not like he has a choice, either way.

He knows in his heart that when— _if_ —Percival goes, he won’t be able to follow.

* * *

“I did have a dream the other day,” Newt tells him. Percival freezes uncharacteristically.

“Oh?”

“Or at least I thought it was a dream.”

“Is this going to be about what I think it is?”

“Perhaps.” Newt says sweetly, enjoying himself perhaps a little too much.

“It probably wasn’t a dream, then.” Percival says, faint colour rising on his cheeks.

Newt smiles, shyness creeping up on him again. “I figured as such.”

“Was it okay?” Percival asks, staring at the floor.

Newt considers all the answers he could give, then settles on a rather non-verbal reply.

* * *

Percival's slicked-back hair, the suit he encases himself in, his eloquence—all of that comes apart in front of Newt like lace undoes itself after the first pull.

Newt is probably just as wrecked, but he can’t bring himself to care. He is too focused on noting every gasp, every murmur, the coolness of the desk against his hips and the feel of scarred skin under his fingertips. He tries to fight the overwhelming sensations coursing through his body, threatening to take over his senses. He must document everything, remember all of it. The feeling of being surrounded and filled to the brim. Percival’s breath, warm on his neck.

_I can’t forget any of this._

Percival whispers his name, and something inside him shatters.

_Remember this,_

Percival’s hands cradling his face, running through his hair, over every inch of his skin. _You’re beautiful_ , murmured against his skin. Blazing trails.

_and this,_

He arches his back, wanting more, needing more, their bodies forming a warm contour of each other.

_and this._

“Kiss,” he whispers, and Percival obeys immediately, working his way into Newt’s mouth, and Newt struggles to keep track of everything, starbursts, kisses, burning, warmth.

_Remember this._

* * *

Newt doesn’t think he’ll able to set foot in the MACUSA ever again without going weak at the knees. He wouldn’t be able to take a single step without remembering the reason he now knows exactly where every freckle on his body is.

“Good,” Percival says as Newt voices this thought, a glint of his former pride in his eyes. Newt blushes and laughs, and Percival kisses him again.

They share the same air, breathing steadily, synchronised, dreaming in tandem.

* * *

I wish we could stay like this forever, Newt says.

Percival hums in response.

Me too.

* * *

_But I will have to let you go._

* * *

It’ll be years later, when they’re no longer wild with the remains of youth. Percival still won’t be able to make a good pot of tea and Newt will always forget to shut the cupboard doors. There will be quiet mornings accompanied by fresh coffee and boiled eggs. Percival will slice open the mail with the butter knife and Newt will dictate replies with Percival’s treasured Self-Writing Quill from Voges. They’ll feed the creatures together. They'll have time.

No war. No fear. Just them together, flaws and scars and freckles.

* * *

Newt wakes up.

The radio shouldn’t work on a Saturday, but snatches of a song float through the crackling static.

_“I hear you calling me…”_

Newt, burying his face in his hands, can smell Percival still.

_“…before I went from you into the night…”_

There’s a white flower on his pillow. A snowdrop. A gift to someone he loved, in a place were two worlds met.

_“I came, – do you remember? – back to you…”_

He wipes their snowdrop dry. Something tells him it won’t wilt, ever, but he rushes to find a glass and water, to give it a new home.

An Occamy floats over and softly laps the salt off his face before gently floating away.

_“For one last kiss beneath the kind stars' light…”_

“I remember,” Newt whispers, to no one in particular.

* * *

That same day, Grindelwald’s escape is all over the papers.

When Newt gets home, he takes one look at the snowdrop sitting quietly in its glass, and starts to write a letter to Dumbledore.


End file.
